


i'm begging you to keep on (haunting me)

by loveontherocks



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5121362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveontherocks/pseuds/loveontherocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>If Zayn were anywhere but here, he’d think it’d be hilarious. For fuck’s sake, he’s arguing with a goddamn ghost.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And, if Zayn was in complete denial, which he sort of is, he’d think this was a fever dream from knocking back too much alcohol and too much caffeine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s probably lying over the dining room table, in a coma or something, because fuck, he lives alone.</em>
</p><p>or; Zayn lives alone in a blue house until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm begging you to keep on (haunting me)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! here's a ghost fic. i'm sorry if you encounter any typos. they're all my own. i don't own anything either. i hope you enjoy it! i really enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> (title comes from another halsey song, "haunting" because i'm halsey trash.)

It’s mostly boxes that consume the space in the house.

Zayn hasn’t gotten around to unpacking; not that he really wants to, anyway. He’s still not sure why he bought this house; it’s too big, has too many bedrooms, too much space for just himself to take up. It’s a home for a family and Zayn hasn’t gotten around to starting one. (Not that he really wants to, anyway.)

It’s just after noon; the sun hangs high in the sky, shrouded by the grey of clouds. He doesn’t have to open a window to know it’s cold out there. Winter is unforgiving, and there’s the promise of snow that hangs in the air.

Glancing at his laptop sitting at the dining room table, he passes by it, not ready to unfurl his fingers from where they clench into fists; he opts instead for coffee, black and strong, without sugar. It’s going to be a long day.

+

Coming to this town was his editor’s idea and Zayn wouldn’t take credit for it, not for a second. He was happy in his crammed apartment away in New York City, where the nightlife bustled about the same way people did during the day, only there was more anonymity at night and less shame in going home with strangers. Still, it seemed like a stupid idea at the time, and it still feels like a dumb idea.

Zayn thumbs the filter of his cigarette, watches as the ash falls.

He should be writing. That’s what he came to this town to do. This town with its airtight community and bright morning smiles. This town where everyone seems to know everyone. It’s what books are made of, Zayn realizes. And he’s the protagonist.

(He’s an author, of course his life is a book; he’s not quite sure what the antagonist is or what the plot of the story is yet, and God forbid there be some strange sort of love interest that throws him off--)

+

It’s night before he touches his computer. He hasn’t made it into town (because he hasn’t run out of smokes yet), and though the kitchen is stocked with all of his favorite foods, he makes another pot of coffee. He’s buzzing on caffeine, even at nine thirty at night, when he should be winding down for bed. He’s done fuck all, hasn’t touched a single box; he’s smoked and emptied the coffee pot, slept, showered and then slept again.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees something out of the corner of his eye, and a chill runs down his spine, and—and nothing.

+

It’s a dusty Tuesday morning; the sun is hidden by darkened clouds and the wind picks up. Zayn sits out front, on his porch, contemplates calling his mother, maybe his editor, his best friend, but smokes a few cigarettes in silence instead.

It’s easier that way.

(He can’t remember when he became this introverted, when being alone stopped feeling like being lonely, and he accepted with the silence of his phone, the house. When his limbs settled and the mundanity of his lazy, daily routine started to feel like home; he didn’t think this house with its plethora of bedrooms and the stacked high boxes would feel like home.)

+

(It happens too fast for Zayn to comprehend at first which startles him as he goes over the events of the day later.)

+

Venturing out into the town always breaks something inside of Zayn and lets a little bit of light settle inside of him. The townspeople are pleasant; he really can’t be bothered with the cheery population, how everyone greets him, slightly curious, but polite with their smiles and handshakes.

Zayn buys milk, cigarettes, a box of cereal, a bottle of liquor, and sour candy.

On his way home, he passes over a bridge, almost rickety in its structure, but sturdy and stubborn. Unshaken. Close to home, at the stop sign, there’s a cross in the ground, like the ones people leave when there’s been an accident. It’s a memorial, small and worn; Zayn doesn’t cross the street to read the name on the cross or the note that’s been left, or take in the way the flowers have wilted into dead weeds and the stuffed animals are dirty and weathered.

He just goes home.

(It doesn’t stop him from thinking about the nameless person a mother lost, though. And it makes him think about his own mother, how he’s alienated her, his whole family, in favor of the glowing screen of his computer and the flow of words that hide behind his writer’s block.)

+

Zayn can’t find his glasses.

He’s sure he’s looked everywhere, gone as far to check in the fridge and under the sink in the bathroom and on the cabinets in the kitchen.

“You left your glasses outside.”

+

(The wind is knocked out of him, and he’s sure his heart is in his throat. He can feel the way it pulses, adamant, and his limbs feel light like his blood isn’t circulating correctly.)

+

(There shouldn’t be anyone in the house with him.)

+

(There isn’t anyone in the house with him.)

+

The house had only been for sale for a few weeks before Zayn’s editor caught wind of it and relayed the idea of staying in a remote town to focus on his writing. Zayn didn’t like the idea of uprooting his entire city life to stay in a small town, yet there was something that drew him to it, maybe the promise of quiet nights and visible stars and the fact that he’d be miles away from anyone he knows; anonymity was a good thing where he was concerned. Maybe it was exactly what he needed, thinking back on it. It sure feels like it.

The blue house was too big, a home meant for family bursting with children, a yard for a dog, a home meant to see kids grow up and send them off to college.

The couple selling the house were cordial enough, sweet in every sense of the word, maybe a little bit sad, but Zayn was sad, too.

+

“Hello?” Zayn calls out.

It feels silly—he knows there isn’t anyone in the house. He knows he’s alone. He knows that. (Except every single scary movie he’s ever watched surfaces to the front of his brain, and he feels like at any time, someone is going to jump out of the shadows.)

No one answers him. There isn’t a sound, almost like the air is too still, too quiet.

Zayn thinks he’s imagined the voice, conjured it up from weeks of being stuck in a house alone, with just his own thoughts.

+

Zayn finds his glasses on the table outside on the porch, next to an empty cigarette box and his lighter. He leaves them there.

+

(It takes quite a bit of that bottle of liquor for him to drop off into sleep. He doesn’t hear anymore voices then.)

+

The bed's too warm for him to want to leave it. The sun is shining through the open curtains, and it’s such a beautiful day Zayn can imagine himself not wanting to waste it. Only he doesn’t care about the weather outside, because today is going to be like the day before; long and quiet and filled with mugs of coffee and glasses of dark liquor and staring at his computer as he huffs down cigarette after cigarette, wondering when his words are going to come back to him.

+

He doesn’t think about the voice; in fact, he forgets all about it.

(Until it happens again.)

+

There’s music playing in the background, something soft and just a touch dirty.

Zayn lies in bed, atop the covers in the dark of his bedroom. The soft thrum of the bassline makes his body hot; could be the simmer of the alcohol in his blood, his wild imagination. He doesn’t have anyone to miss, but he does miss the touch of someone’s body on his, the softness of skin, the sturdiness of muscles. Someone holding him down and making him sweat, making him beg. He misses that, wants it.

He touches his own body, fingers drifting over his nipples, along the lines of his stomach. It’s easy to push down the waistband of his sweatpants, run his palm over the where his cock lays hard over the crease connecting his hip and his thigh. He doesn’t think of anyone in particular. It isn’t a face that flashes in his mind, just skin and hands and the softness of someone’s greedy mouth. He moans, taking himself against the palm of his hand, stroking up towards the head, feeling himself drip; he strokes back down and his thighs quiver.

He can’t remember the last time he let himself have something like this, the simple sexual pleasure of wanking off in the dark, but it feels good, makes his blood simmer and his head swim; it makes his body twitch and shake as he strokes harder, so easy to imagine another pair of hands touching down his body.

He whimpers when he comes.

+

Zayn can’t find his lighter. Any of his lighters, but that’s the sad life of a smoker, he supposes. He gives up looking, turns the stove on and waits until the burner is lit cherry red before touching the end of his cigarette to it.

He’s so tired; his exhaustion is soul deep, maybe because being alone feels a lot like being lonely. Only, he can’t really complain because it’s self-imposed.

+

Zayn wakes up and he hears humming.

It’s soft, so soft—he’s not even sure it’s real (that line has been blurring fast anyway, this could all be some sort of fever dream half induced by the alcohol he keeps consuming, but who knows, really).  It makes him climb out of his bed, wander around the house until it fills his ears (the emptiness of his heart) until he reaches the living room, footsteps quiet as he walks in.

He finds a boy.

+

Zayn has listened to a lot of music. There’s classical, rap, rock, hip-hop, sugary bubblegum pop. Zayn has listened to a lot of music and he has a lot of favorite songs.

+

Zayn believes. There are different things he believes in, like happiness, sadness, crippling depression. Anxiety. Things like fear and hope and love. Zayn believes in love, or maybe a concept, something that swells and subsides like the waves crashing over the sea shore, pulling back like the tide late at night, water glimmering underneath the glowing light of the too far away moon. He believes he is here.

+

The boy is tall, but younger than Zayn. It’s apparent in the roundness of his face, in the lightness of the youth in his eyes. The boy is young and transparent, not quite as here as Zayn tries to believe. Zayn doesn’t think this is a dream, in fact, he knows it isn’t.

The boy looks at him, with his dark, see-through eyes, and Zayn stares.

The humming stops.

+

When Zayn wakes again, he’s lying on the couch, one knee caught between two cushions, and his face smashed into a throw pillow. He’s shivering, cold—he doesn’t remember leaving the window open, but there’s the stench of cigarette smoke and a cup on the coffee counter with the remnants of the rest of the liquor he couldn’t finish drinking the night before.

He wanders through each room in the house but he doesn’t find the boy.

+

It’s his third cup of coffee and he’s written thousands of words and his fingers won’t stop and it feels good to be writing again. There’s the playful imagery his mind conjures, the imagery his fingers covey through the keys of his computer. He looks over his work, reads the dialogue and the paragraphs of descriptions.

He clicks save, shuts down his computer, and goes outside for a cigarette.

+

That night, he’s sitting in his bed, blankets pulled over his chest, and his heart is beating so fast. There’s a small twinge of fear that sears through his blood.

He doesn’t feel alone, and he should, because he’s alone in this house, this empty house he bought, and he doesn’t feel as alone as he should.

He doesn’t sleep, just smokes through his pack of cigarettes, not even finishing one before he’s lit another.

The breeze from the window keeps him awake and he can see the moon and the stars that dot the sky like speckles of white paint on a black canvas.

His body is restless and he’d like to blame all of the coffee he’s consumed throughout the day, but he knows that isn’t it.

(He’s afraid he’ll open his eyes and see the boy again, the transparent, humming boy.)

The boxes need to be unpacked.

+

Shelving his books, he organizes them by color. Then he reorganizes them so they sit traditionally by author. He reorganizes them again so all the books sit alphabetically by the first word on page sixteen.

+

Zayn abhors the winter. It’s too cold, and the snow falls heavily, and the sunlight is scarce. He hates trudging through the wintered grounds for more coffee and alcohol and cigarette, bread and milk and butter.

His skinny limbs don’t do very much to keep him from freezing.

+

The house looks more like a home. His own home. There’s the living room with the soft and worn sofas, the cigarette burns on the coffee and end tables. There’s the myriad of bookshelves that line the walls.

The faces of his family are dotted along the drywall, smiling in photographs. Maybe if he were happier, he’d call his mother and tell her he loves her. Maybe tomorrow.

Two of the bedrooms are empty. He doesn’t even sleep in the master bedroom; decides he likes the bedroom facing the backyard the best because he can see the moon better at night. So he relocates, just the mattress and his cup of coffee in the middle of the room, enough for him to sleep on, enough for Zayn to quiet his mind.

He wonders, late at night, if he’ll start to hear the humming again.

+

Living in a haunted house is a preposterous concept and Zayn believes in a lot of things, but he refuses to believe there’s a ghost walking the halls of his home.

+

It’s just before sunrise; the sky is a dusty grey, and Zayn’s eyes are caked with sleep. His hair is getting too long, falls in his face far too often. He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs on the sleeves of his too-big sweater. Sitting on the porch, there’s exhaustion that clings to his limbs but his eyes are bright and wide open, looking up at the sky, like he’s daring the sun to come out.

Crossing his legs at the ankles, he picks up the half empty pack of cigarettes, pulls one out and lights it up. The smoke tastes like freedom in his lungs.

(There’s something about the first cigarette of the morning, something about the way the smoke curls white in the air when he huffs it from his mouth. There’s something freeing about the addiction, a silly paradox.)

+

Zayn sits to write again; his fingers flurry over the keyboard with the confidence of a writer who knows what he’s talking about, what he’s trying to express and convey. He’s not sure where the story is going, and the main character seems just as lost, but there’s hope between the lines of his writing.

He clicks save and goes outside for a cigarette.

+

When Zayn was little, his mother used to read to him. There were different kinds of books on all sorts of subjects; she worked at a library, so she always brought something new for him, and he made sure she read every single word, as fast as he could understand, because he loved the stories written deep in the pages, the characters that came to life, not because his mother made choice voices for them, but because they were alive inside of his own imagination, splitting his mind at the seam until his tiny brain conjured the kind of imagery he would later get on a canvas with fingers covered in paint.

And now, he was doing just that, creating a world on paper with his very own words and imagination.

+

When he wakes one morning, rain is pelting the house; it’s so big that he barely hears it, but it pelts against the window and he can’t see through it, not that there’s much to look at outside.

Zayn’s forgotten about the boy, the transparent boy with dark eyes until he sees him again.

+

It’s when he has a mug of coffee in his hand that a voice startles him, enough to drop the mug and splatter coffee over the pristine kitchen floor. The shards of glass crackle over the tile and it’s a mess, but Zayn’s attention is caught. It’s purely and wholly on the boy, the transparent boy with dark eyes.

He doesn’t disappear this time, and Zayn’s heart is pounding in his chest.

(Because Zayn believes but he can’t believe this.)

“It’s raining,” the boy says.

And the statement is so obvious, so absurd that Zayn throws his head back and lets out a howl of laughter, his hands clutching at his stomach.

“What’s so funny?” the boy asks.

+

Zayn’s never fainted before, and definitely not on a pile of glass shards. He’s angry when he wakes, confused and disoriented, head pounding and his arms scraped up a little with pieces of glass stuck to his skin. It’s nothing he can’t manage alone, but the fact that it happened at all—

“Are you okay?”

Zayn’s eyes flit over to where the boy is sitting, cross legged, just off to his side.

(This close, the boy doesn’t look much like a boy. Young, yes, but he’s but a few years younger than Zayn is, he guesses. He’s curly hair, but it’s tame, swept over his forehead. It doesn’t obscure Zayn from looking into his eyes. He knows they have to be brown, but looking right at them; well, Zayn can see through the boy and it’s disheartening, because he’s sitting face to face with a dead kid in a house he bought in a town where he’s sure no one knows his name and—

And this isn’t his home. He wants to go home.)

“What are you doing here?” Zayn says, gritting his teeth as he sits up and a wave of nausea rides his stomach, threatening to spew his breakfast. “You need to leave.”

The boy’s face scrunches up, and he looks part confused, wholly angry. “This is my house,” the boy replies, standing up swiftly, looking down at Zayn with dark eyes. “You’re the one that needs to leave.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no. I bought this house. It’s mine. And you need to get out.”

The boy blinks at him, jaw set.

(If Zayn were anywhere but here, he’d think it’d be hilarious. For fuck’s sake, he’s arguing with a goddamn ghost.

And, if Zayn was in complete denial, which he sort of is, he’d think this was a fever dream from knocking back too much alcohol and too much caffeine.

He’s probably lying over the dining room table, in a coma or something, because fuck, he lives alone.)

“I can’t.”

Zayn sighs, rolling his eyes. He isn’t in the mood for this, will probably never be in the mood for this. He needs a cigarette, a shower, and some painkillers. Not a baby ghost floating around and telling him he needs to move.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Zayn says, leaving the mess in the kitchen and walking out.

“I mean that I can’t leave the house. Believe me, I tried,” the boy says. There’s a beat of silence where Zayn mulls over the boy’s response, and when Zayn doesn’t say anything, the boy continues with, “Watching you every day is kind of depressing.”

Zayn lets out a self-deprecating laugh as he walks down the hallway to his bedroom. “Yeah, well, no one said you had to come around and stalk what I do all day. You could just disappear and mind your own fucking business.”

+

(Zayn thinks, for a moment, that maybe this is real and maybe he’s talking to a ghost boy, and maybe there’s no other explanation other than he purchased a house that happens to be haunted.

And yet, the thought is so absurd, even staring him right in the face that he can’t quite believe it.)

+

The ghost watches him, walks closely behind and Zayn searches for clean clothes to wear. He settles for a t-shirt and some joggers, neither of which he can remember wearing, but both of which smell extensively of smoke.

He needs to stop drinking so damn much.

“I got bored.” The ghost doesn’t seem to be solid; he walks through the piles of shit that litter Zayn’s floor, but is completely able to lie across Zayn’s makeshift bed without sinking through.

“Bored of what?”

“Of not talking to you. You’ve been here for months. Just that. And the house was empty for not that long, but it was boring just kind of being here and having no one to talk to when I know I can totally talk to people. Isn’t that cool?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at the boy, and the boy wears a smile that’s too bright for the conversation, too bright for the fact that he’s dead, probably buried in a grave somewhere, a plot his parents purchased and lay flowers on because they miss their son.

(There’s an idle thought about the sad couple he purchased the house from. Just an idle thought and nothing more.)

“No. No, it’s not fucking cool. It’s annoying. You’re annoying. With your humming and telling me where things are and scaring the fucking shit out of me every time you decide to show your face. It’s not cool.” Zayn snaps his mouth closed, hands on his hips, wondering why the fuck he’s yelling. Zayn shakes his head. “Just leave me alone, okay. Just leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want to see you. I don’t want to hear you or even know you’re here. I literally just want you to be gone.”

The boy purses his lips. He raises his fingers to run them through his hair. Zayn’s slightly astonished that it moves, that it acts like normal hair would. And then Zayn deflates because he’s surprised at the technicalities of a ghost form and this day is probably topping the list of Fucked Up Days.

“Too bad.” And the boy grins (fucking grins) and then, just as easily as he’d seemed to come, he disappears, dematerializes. He’s just … gone.

+

In the shower, Zayn entertains the idea of filling up the tub, sitting in it, and dropping a plugged in toaster.

(He doesn’t even have a fucking toaster.)

+

Zayn makes it to his bedroom with a towel around his waist and his ghost friend nowhere to be seen. He figures it’s safe enough to just drop the towel and crawl back into bed, and let his eyes close.

The shower didn’t do much to dull the headache and there’s still the itch for a cigarette, so he gets out of bed, pulls his clothes on, and steps out onto the porch for a smoke.

+

“What are you having for dinner?”

The voice startles him (he’s never going to get used to the way it curls around him, coming from the transparent, blue-tinted figure of a ghost), and Zayn turns around, finds the boy sitting on the counter next to the stove. He looks comfortable with his legs crossed underneath him, hands folded in his lap. Zayn shuts off the faucet and dries his hands on the fabric of his jeans.

“I thought I told you to get lost, mate,” Zayn quips. The boy looks at him, tilting his head to the side, like he’s confused.

“I thought I told you this is my house,” the boy counters, mocking Zayn’s rough voice. His face is unimpressed.

Zayn sighs; there’s not enough alcohol in the house to deal with this, to deal with the fact that he doesn’t believe in ghosts and he’s staring, blank-faced at one, just chilling in his kitchen.

“Disappear, go away, leave me alone,” Zayn growls, walking out of the kitchen with long strides of his rather short legs, finding himself at the kitchen table to sit down and write.

It’s quiet for all of thirty seconds before he hears, “Are you writing a love story?”

Zayn slams his hands on the table, hanging his head. “No. I’m not writing anything.”

The ghost doesn’t relent. “You do a lot of writing. You must be writing something.”

Frustrated, Zayn turns in his chair, finding the boy stalking around the living room, looking at things; Zayn notices he doesn’t reach his hands out to touch things or move them.

“It’s got a boy and a girl. It must be a love story, then, right?”

Zayn closes his eyes. He turns around, facing his computer and slumps in his chair. “It isn’t anything. And it isn’t a love story. Not between a girl and a boy, at least.”

There a colorful timbre of a laugh Zayn hears. “Between two boys then? Or maybe two girls?”

“No one. It’s not a love story. It’s a horror story. People are brutally murdered and no one can find the killer and it’s going to be a bestseller because people get off on cheap thrills.”

The boy is silent.

When Zayn turns around, he isn’t anywhere Zayn can see. Zayn waits for a bit; nothing is said and it’s stark quiet.

Zayn sips from his mug and reaches forward to close the lid to his computer. There’s no sense in writing now, not when his inspiration is long lost to his ghost friend.

+

(The clock says it’s near three in the morning and Zayn is thinking about the ghost, and how he doesn’t know the ghost’s name.)

+

When Zayn wakes, he's groggy and slightly disoriented; the room spins. He doesn't remember drinking himself to sleep, but waking up never agreed with him the way it should. He rubs his eyes and stretches his body, debating whether or not he should just go back to sleep. Not that he's going to get much writing done--

"You're awake!"

Zayn jumps, flinching at the shrill sound of a voice. He looks over and finds the boy lying next to him, floating seamlessly above the covers. There isn't a dent in the bed like there should be.

"Fuck," Zayn hisses. He glares at the ghost, his mouth turned down with a frown. "What are you doing?"

The ghost gives a smiles, one that Zayn would describe as sleepy, even though, to his limited knowledge, that ghosts don't get sleep.

"I was waiting for you to wake up. It's boring when you're sleeping. You sleep too much."

Zayn rolls his eyes. "I sleep just enough, thank you," Zayn shoots back, moving to get out of bed now that he knows he isn't going to get any sleep.

His feet are cold on the hardwood and looking outside the window, he notices the sky is dark and dreary; the same as yesterday and the day before.

"What are you going to do today?" The ghost asks, bounding behind Zayn as he travels to the bathroom.

"Do you mind?" Zayn snaps, turning around and stopping in his tracks. The ghost, seemingly unable to control his momentum goes right through Zayn. It makes Zayn shiver, like ice has been floating in his veins. Zayn ignores it, settles to contemplate the moment later when he's had coffee.

"Mind what?"

Zayn growls, rolling his eyes. "Not following me into the bathroom, mate."

The ghost doesn't leave though, sits on the bathroom counter. He stares at Zayn, his eyes wondrous and pensive; he's observant, and if Zayn is all he has for entertainment, the ghost isn't going to be any less bored.

"Oh, right. It's just, you're awake now and it's like I have someone to talk to," the ghost says. Zayn lifts an eyebrow, rubbing his hand over his face.

"I don't want to talk to you."

The ghost smiles. "Of course you do. You don't have anyone else to talk to."

And while that reigns true, Zayn still enjoys his solitary confinement in this too big for him home. And yet, as crazy at it seems, talking to his relentless ghost friend hasn't proved to be anything but--

He can't quite say pleasant, but it hasn't been totally terrible.

"Mate, look. I just want to shower and brush my teeth. I need to pee. Can you just wait in the kitchen or summat? I really don't want you peeking at my junk, like." Zayn sighs, grabs his towel from where he'd left it hanging over the bathroom door. The boy nods.

"Yeah, 'course, I'll just--"

Zayn slams the door closed, still able to hear a muffled, "--wait for you in the kitchen."

The ghost doesn't float through the door for which Zayn is grateful for. He brushes his teeth then, avoiding his reflection the mirror (he knows how he looks, how terrible gaunt and skinny he is these days), pees, and undresses. He sets the water and climbs into the shower.

He wants to go back home. He doesn't want to be here. Ghost be damned, he can't stand this small town and the population with their friendly smiles and their bright eyes and mothers attending PTA meetings and fathers coaching sports and teenagers trotting along the sidewalk. Can’t he just be miserable in his busy city? Where time is just a concept? Where he was truly and really alone, no ghosts to be found?

Zayn washes his hair, soaps up his body, ignores the way his dick twitches because he hasn't gotten laid in months and hasn't bothered to wank off in weeks. Not with that damned ghost lingering around, walking through walls and lying with him while he sleeps. Too risky.

It’s worse than being a teenager and finding out the beautiful, awe striking amazingness of an orgasm, only to have a mother known to walk in any second.

He finishes his shower, turns the knob cold and stands in agony until he feels like his dick is going to shrivel off and he’s never become hard again.

+

Sweatpants and a t-shirt later, Zayn walks out of his bedroom. His ghost isn't anywhere Zayn can immediately see and Zayn decides to savor the quiet for a moment before he's bothered again. He puts on a pot of coffee, rifles through the fridge for something to eat before his ghost makes an appearance.

"I would have put the coffee on, but, you know. I can't."

Zayn doesn’t jump, because he was mostly expecting it. Instead, like his frostiness has worn off, he smiles.

"'S alright," Zayn says easily. He pulls a mug from the dish rack next to the sink, pours it full of black coffee. He takes a drink, as scalding as it is, and feels himself waking up. Nothing truly does it for him like a cup of black.

(A good shag would do, but he's out of luck there, unfortunately.)

"What are you going to do today?" The ghost asks. He settles in top of the counter, right next to the stove. Zayn stands opposite him, leaning against the sink, mug held in both hands. He doesn't hide his scrutiny of the ghost; he's younger, but not by much. He isn't black and white or pale, he's just slightly transparent and tinted an odd blue, like he's underneath a shadow. He’s handsome, with wide eyes, an expressive, pink-lipped mouth, a button for a nose. Zayn notices a splotch on his throat, just off to the side; a birthmark. He's wearing the same thing Zayn’s always seen him wear, jeans and scuffed up Chucks, a red hoodie left unzipped over a plain white t-shirt. Idly, he wonders how the boy died, but doesn't voice his curiosity. It seems rude to.

"Nothing," Zayn says, "just like yesterday."

The ghost pouts, frowns, and looks down. "Oh."

Zayn makes a noncommittal noise, clearing his throat and taking another scathing gulp of his coffee. He decides it isn't strong enough.

"What are you writing?" He asks.

Zayn shrugs. "Dunno yet."

"So you're not writing a horror story? I don't quite like those."

Zayn stares at the ghost. "What's your name?"

The ghost looks confused for a moment. "Me?"

"No, I was talking to the other ghost traipsing around the house," he deadpans. The ghost smiles.

"Oh, sorry," he laughs. "I'm Liam."

Zayn makes another noise. He doesn't quite know what to say, and for a best-selling author, that’s saying something.

"You're Zayn, right? That’s your name? At least, that's the name I see on the mail. Zayn Malik."

Zayn smiles a little bit. His ghost is nosy. "Yeah, mate."

"You don't talk a whole lot, you know? And when you do, you're kind of mean."

Zayn laughs then, shaking his head. "It's called sarcasm, Liam. And I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings; I didn't exactly take a course in Ghost Feelings 101 in uni."

Liam frowns, unsatisfied with the answer. "I was a person before. I mean. I'm still a person."

For some reason, anger wells up in Zayn and he dumps the coffee, dropping the mug in the sink. "No. You're a ghost. You're a ghost and you're dead and you're haunting the ever loving fuck out of me, and for God's sake, I wish you weren't."

Zayn rubs his hand over his face, runs his fingers through his hair and when he opens his eyes, Liam isn't sitting in the counter. He isn't anywhere Zayn can see and instead of being happy about it, he's even more angry.

He goes back to bed.

+

It's humming that wakes him up. The days are starting to blur into each other and Zayn isn't sure if he's slept for twenty hours or two. Liam is lying beside him again, eyes closed, just.... humming.

Zayn doesn’t move, doesn't make a sound. He just watches for a solid moment, before closing his eyes again and falling back asleep.

+

It's dark. Night has fallen and clouds still shroud the sky. He’s freezing, shivering as he brings the blankets closer around his body. There isn't any more humming, but Liam is still by his side. His eyes are closed still, eyelashes long and dark against the gold of his transparent skin. It's weird, the whole thing is really weird. Zayn wishes there was another way he could describe it, but he settles for that. He lives with a ghost in a house and he's certain it isn't the result of too much alcohol. It's all real and it's weird and--

"I can feel you staring."

Zayn doesn’t move, but his heart is pounding in his chest. "Yeah, so? What are you going to do about it?"

Liam's eyes open and he looks right at Zayn and Zayn feels like his heart is going to drum right through his chest with how hard it's beating.

"Nothing, I guess. Can't really do anything, can I?"

Zayn blinks, swallows thickly. He shakes his head. "No. I don't suppose you can."

Liam smiles. "You've been sleeping for hours. You really do sleep too much."

Zayn yawns, smothers his face in the softness of his pillows. He groans. "Well, I'm up now," Zayn says. He rolls over so he’s lying on his back before sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubs his face with his hands.

"What are you going to do?" Liam's voice is small coming from behind him and Zayn looks over his shoulder to see Liam sitting up, his legs crossed underneath him.

"Coffee first. Maybe I'll do some writing. Maybe I'll just fuck off and not do anything."

"Can I keep you company?" Liam asks.

Zayn doesn’t smile, but he doesn't frown either. "I don't think I have a choice, do I?"

That seems to excite Liam, and Zayn doesn’t quite know why. "Can we watch a movie? I don't want to interrupt you if you're going to be writing."

Zayn licks his lips and forces himself not to smile. He just says, "We'll see."

+

Because Liam can't, for all the obvious reasons, Zayn sets up a movie for Liam to watch, bringing his computer into the living room to sit next to Liam while he occupies his time with superhero movies. Zayn needs to get some writing done, whatever it may be. He doesn't have an outline, or a plot, or anything but an open word document and frustration boiling in his veins.

He wishes it was two years ago, when words poured out of his fingers and his imagination ran rampant, where he couldn’t slow down enough to capture it all. Two years ago when he was slightly happier, content. Two years ago when he talked to his mother and went out with his friends. He doesn't know what happened, why he ended up this way.

Liam is quiet by his side, sitting crossed legged like he always seems to be. Zayn starts typing.

(He feels like a cliché, stealing glances at the boy with dark eyes and shaggy hair, lifeless for all intents and purposes, but teeming with the excitement of life. A paradox, one so beautiful it makes Zayn’s eyes pool with tears he won't let himself shed.)

He types out the scenery, a forest maybe, where a boy wakes up, where his spirit awakens. It's snowing, but he isn't cold, not like he should be, and—

"What are you writing?" Liam asks, but doesn't peer down at the computer to see. His curiosity has boundaries today, it seems.

"I'm not sure, yet," Zayn replies, but he knows, he does know.

+

(Every story, no matter what it happens to be, is about love.)

+

"You don't leave very often."

Zayn looks up from his computer.

Liam sits in front of him, signature crossed legs and his hands in his lap. He seems comfortable, like he's okay when he's near Zayn. It's like he has too much energy, the edges of his frame vibrating. Zayn doesn’t know very much ghost lore, just imaginary things he's learned from television and books he's read, but Liam seems so calm when he's close to Zayn, when there isn't enough space to keep them from touching.

(Zayn knows he can't lift his hands and touch Liam, he knows that, but he wants to sometimes.)

It's well and good enough time to take a break; he's been writing nonstop for hours, not even pausing for food or more coffee, and maybe the excuse that there isn't any alcohol in the house keeps him from drinking, but for a moment, however short, he feels good, a bit like the freedom he reminisces about when he thinks of his tiny apartment in New York.

He slumps in his chair; it's night, the moon glowing bright outside. There's just the one light over their heads from the chandelier, and Liam, looking at him curiously.

"Do you want me to leave?" Zayn asks, his voice bordering on the tone of teasing. Liam smiles.

"Of course I don't want you to leave. I just noticed that I don't have to ask you to stay."

Zayn shrugs, stands up from his chair and stretches the length of his body until his joints crackle.

"I don't have anyone to see and the only thing I should be doing is writing. So here we are, you and I."

Liam's smile turns bright. Well. As bright as any ghost's smile can. There are crinkles by his eyes, eyelashes shrouding the brown of his irises.

"There are plenty of people that you could be friends with here. After all, they were friends with me."

And that's just something they don't encroach on. Liam's been pestering for weeks and they talk about mindless things. Silly things. Things that don't quite matter in the grand scheme of things. And yet, there's a simmering curiosity that burns inside of Zayn, to know what life was like for his ghost.

In the simplest, honest sense, they really are just strangers.

And though it sounds like an invitation, Zayn doesn’t take the bait. He’s hungry, and even though it's half past three, he needs to eat. Maybe another cup of coffee will do.

"If I wanted friends," Zayn says, opening the refrigerator in the kitchen, "I would have made them."

Liam doesn’t seem satisfied. Instead of his voice sounding from far away, he's stood right behind Zayn, close enough that had he been alive, Zayn could feel his breath along the nape of his neck. Instead, all he feels is a wild chill that rivals the winds outdoors.

"Don't you get lonely?" Liam asks. Zayn turns to look at him, Liam's eyes wide and expressive, mouth parted slightly. His lips would be pink if there was blood pulsing through his veins.

"No, I don't," Zayn says. "Not anymore."

+

It's strange waking up, knowing there's a ghost he's friendly with. Knowing he isn't alone, but is. Liam is just real enough that he knows he isn't going mental, but there's just .... Something missing, Zayn suppose. Probably Liam’s life, but that's neither here nor there. Zayn will take what he can get at this point, because for some reason, waking up one morning found him seeking out the ghost, wondering where he was. As crazy as it seems, he finds Liam’s company enjoyable, pleasant in a sweet way. Like, had Liam been alive, in this town, Zayn would have been friends with him. Unfortunately, this is what he gets.

It makes him sad at times, just a small weight of sourness that sits in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't think Liam sees when Zayn stares for a little bit too long, but it’s hard not to think of the boy, how alive he could be, the solid space he could take up with his long limbs and big hands and his shaggy hair swept over his forehead. He thinks Liam would have been so great with a beating heart and warm fingertips.

+

Zayn’s in a good enough mood that he turns the stereo on. He lets music fill the living room. No writing today, he's more than deserved a break after writing nonstop for four days, Liam hovering and pestering, humming songs Zayn remembers from years ago. He wonders if they’re from Liam’s life before this, or if they're his favorites. He can't decide, doesn't ask, but lies across the sofa, glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and lets himself feel the pulsing of the bass.

He hasn't seen Liam all day is the thing.

And he's called out, wandered through the rooms of the house, but the ghost hasn't turned up, hasn't shown himself. Zayn would have been grateful if he didn't miss the boy so much, the way he'd sit to close to Zayn and Zayn could feel his chill, the way it frosts his flesh and raises goosebumps when Liam's too close. He doesn't understand why he feels like this; he couldn't have gotten used to the presence of a ghost could he have?

By the time he guzzles down his third glass of wine, he runs out of cigarettes. Under any other circumstances he wouldn't have gone out, but desperate measures, he supposes.

It's still quiet, nothing but the hum of a bass heavy song filling the house and he shrugs his arms through his coat, balances himself as he pulls on his shoes. He almost forgets his keys, but doubling back for his phone helped him remember.

The snowfall makes the walk feel like a hike. His head is swimming and his mind is reeling with the thoughts of home. Not home home in New York, or even home home in Bradford. His new home, this home, filled with humming and transparent brown eyes and bursts of cold air he's used to associating to Liam coming out from wherever he hides.

Zayn wishes Liam was alive sometimes. All the time if he's brutally honest, but he's rarely ever honest with himself these days.

+

The boy at the register takes his money.

(Boy is quite liberal a description considering he's inches taller than Zayn and looks like he could be the same age; the dimple is as deceiving as the twinkling in his green eyes.)

Pocketing his smokes, Zayn turns to walk away.

"Plans tonight?" The boy asks, like it’s a second thought and he's genuinely curious. Zayn might be halfway to drunk, but he knows that accent doesn't match the rest of the town’s population. Still a Brit, but definitely not from the Midlands. Zayn turns back his attention to the boy behind the counter. There isn't a line, so he allows himself to loiter. (He shoves down the thought that this is an actual, real person he's talking to. Someone he can touch. He doesn't reach out to touch though. Half drunk, but not stupid.)

"I'd have to leave town for that, and I'm in no state to be driving, mate," Zayn says slowly.

The boy grins and it's a pretty sight, dimples driving deep canyons in the boy’s cheeks. "At least you're smart about it." he pauses for a moment, like he's wanting to inquire about something, but doesn't know how. "Um, you're new around here, right?"

Zayn shrugs. "Not quite new, mate. I just don't get out much."

The boy purses his lips. "I just haven't seen you around and I’m--like it’s kind of exciting meeting new people."

Zayn lets himself smile, even if it feels weird smiling at a stranger. "I suppose."

"You live in the new developments, then?"

Zayn shakes his head. "Nah. The blue house. It isn't new I don't think."

Zayn sees the boys interest peek visibly, leaning forward just slightly. His cross necklace sways when he does and it makes Zayn dizzy. "The blue house?"

Zayn nods and shoves his hands into the tight pockets of his worn jeans.

"Oh. Oh, that’s nice."

Zayn frowns. "What's that mean, then?"

The boy shakes his head. "It means that it's nice, I s'pose."

Zayn feels the awkward air stifling in his lungs. He wants the ground to swallow him up--anything to get away.

"Right, right." Zayn clears his throat, feels his fingers itch to pull out a cigarette. That was the whole point of this trip.

"Anyway, I'm Harry. I do hope to see you around again soon."

Zayn nods. "Yeah, alright," he agrees, like he's making plans, but he isn't.

(It's been too long since he's left the house if he's acting like this. And there's a steep want inside of him to just see Liam again, to drink another bottle of wine and watch Liam watch him while they lie on his bed. The sun will rise and Zayn will fall asleep listening to the deep, unnecessary breaths of a ghost.)

+

Zayn doesn’t see Liam for three more days.

+

(Zayn tries not to let it get to him, tries not to let it bother him, but it does, deep down, when all he’s been doing has been talking to this ghost, this boy—and now the boy doesn’t show up.

Zayn wonders if he’s done something wrong, maybe. Wonders if he’s offended the boy and that’s why he won’t come around anymore.

Zayn doesn’t wonder if, simply, the ghost’s time here is over.)

+

He sees Harry a lot more.

It isn’t that Harry’s shoved his way into Zayn’s life, but that’s exactly what’s happened.

He shows up one day on his doorstep, with a bottle of sweet wine. It’s late, later than most company shows up, but Zayn was just waking; he wasn’t ready just yet to dive into alcohol, with Harry’s wide grin, and curious eyes, he lets Harry inside the house.

They talk.

They talk a lot.

+

Zayn learns a lot about Harry. There’s quite a bit to learn about the boy with long legs and long hair, the boy that wears long silver necklaces and rings on his index fingers. He’s sweet, earnest, and he takes his time with his speech and it’s almost fascinating, watching Harry talk. (His sense of humor is dry, but it’s there, curled up in his words when he talks to Zayn.)

Quite honestly, Zayn’s never had a friend like Harry before.

+

(Eventually, Zayn starts to wonder if Liam was a fever dream.)

+

Harry’s sat on the couch; they share their insomniac nights since the house Harry shares with a couple of other blokes doesn’t let him sleep. Zayn finds he doesn’t mind, likes Harry’s quiet company, the slow, chill way he speaks, the deep cadence of his voice. It’s rich, blissful to listen to when Zayn’s eyes are red from lack of sleep and too much alcohol, when he’s just on the edge of slumber, but can’t quite fall off into sleep.

“Why do you come here so much?” Zayn asks. It’s half four; the sun’s due to rise in a few hours and Liam hasn’t come around and Harry’s warm.

(They touch sometimes.

Not sexually; Zayn can’t quite see that in Harry, even though he’s handsome, cheeky, a romantic at heart the same way Zayn is. They could, Zayn thinks sometimes; he sees the way Harry looks at him, bounding curiosity that pushes him close to Zayn, but he doesn’t overstep. Zayn’s grateful, and so they touch.

Fingertips through messy, almost-sleep rumpled hair; the palms of their hands against knee caps and sometimes roving over the thickness of thighs; heads tucked into chests and bodies tucked in close to rib cages.

They touch a lot.

Zayn forgot how cold he felt being all alone.)

“What d’you mean?” Harry replies coolly. His voice is tired, thick. Zayn lets his eyes close and where he’s enclosed into Harry’s side on the sofa, he presses a hand over Harry’s tummy.

“I mean,” Zayn says, “I mean why do you come about? Here?”

Harry is silent and Zayn wonders if it’s because Harry has to think about what he’s going to say, if it’s because he needs to censor his response.

(He likes that, how cautious Harry is with Zayn, and he doesn’t know why.)

“I like this house. I used to come here. Well, when the old couple that owned the place used to live here. They had kids. I was friends with them. And …” Harry sighs, and Zayn waits patiently, lets Harry gather his thoughts. “Do you ever miss someone so much it hurts? Even—like, even so long after they’ve gone?”

Zayn leans up, looks at Harry. Harry’s staring at the ceiling, like he can see through it. There are tears sitting on the waterlines of his eyes. Zayn holds his breath.

“You’re a kid, you know?” Harry says, taking in a shaky breath, like there isn’t enough room in his lungs to shelter the oxygen. “Like, you’re a kid, and you think you’re invincible, and you think your friends are invincible, and you think maybe just you and your friends will live forever, just being—like. Just being. And one day, you realize that you aren’t. That you never were invisible. And the world just isn’t the same anymore, you know?”

Zayn looks up at the ceiling, too, tries to see what Harry sees.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs, yeah? You can see the moon best out of that one,” Harry whispers.

It doesn’t quite make sense, but Zayn’s always been smart; he connects the dots with his sleepy brain, and suddenly, it’s like the room is too hot and his body can’t handle the way his heart palpitates so forcefully in his chest.

“You have a best friend, and when you love them, you want to protect them. Nothing—it wasn’t—I don’t know. It just happened and he was gone.”

+

It just happened and he was gone.

+

Zayn sleeps until four in the afternoon. Harry’s gone, probably to work, but he’s gone and Zayn feels sick.

+

It’s one thing to know there’s a ghost in his home.

It’s another thing, a completely different thing to know the boy he met just weeks ago is the ghost’s best friend.

Zayn doesn’t know what to do with that information.

So, he goes back to sleep.

+

When Zayn wakes up next, it’s to humming. It isn’t annoying, not like it used to be.

His eyes flutter open. The sun is bright today, though dying, drooping down behind the horizon.

Liam lays next to him, his eyes closed, stretched out over the unoccupied side of the bed. He’s beautiful, Zayn thinks. He’s beautiful, and Zayn’s missed him.

“Hi,” Zayn says, his voice breaking, raspy from sleep. Liam’s eyes flick open and his pupils are so black against the tree-bark brown of his irises.

“I’ve never seen you sleep for a whole day, you know? You’ve been here a long time, and I’ve never seen you sleep that long.” Liam’s voice is smooth, conversational, but his eyes are piercing, and Zayn’s missed it.

“And,” Liam says, continuing. “I see you’ve met Harry.”

+

They don’t talk for a bit. Zayn doesn’t write, Liam doesn’t hum. Zayn leaves music on because the silence is driving him mad and though he used to crave it, he can’t handle it right now.

He has a million questions for Liam, a thousand and one inquiries, but he isn’t sure if it would make a difference. Nothing would make a difference, would it? Not when Liam is dead, Harry’s his friend, and he owns a house that’s too big for him to live in.

(It’s like suddenly all the space before him is noticeable, and he wants to lock himself up in a room, let himself have the illusion that the world is little, that he can control it.

He wants a cigarette.)

+

Out on the porch, Zayn’s wrapped up in a thick blanket, chain-smoking in a way he hasn’t in a long, long while. Not since New York, not since the last time he let someone break his heart.

He lets Liam follow him around, lets Liam sit too close, like he’s solid and Zayn can feel him.

(Zayn can’t, and they both know that.)

+

Inside, Zayn polishes off a bottle of wine. It’s too cold outside to smoke, so he does inside.

“How did you die?”

(Zayn hates obituaries. There are billions of lives in the world, some deemed more special than others when death creeps up and captures someone. It’s horrible to see the way a tiny square shaped paragraph of writing is what a person is reduced to when they die.

He doesn’t go looking for Liam’s obituary in the newspaper. He knows Liam’s bigger than that.

He’s bigger than everything.

At least, it feels like that.)

Liam acts like he hasn’t heard Zayn, but Zayn knows he has.

“Do you like Harry?” Liam asks, ignoring Zayn outright. Zayn doesn’t want to play any games, but he’ll humor Liam. Because he doesn’t have anything else to do.

“Of course I like Harry. What’s it matter?” Zayn grumbles, stuttering his breath on the dragging inhale of smoke.

Liam doesn’t move after he sits on the edge of the sofa where Zayn sort of lays, his limbs sprawled out and hanging off the edges of the cushions. Liam’s statuesque, immaculate, boyish and young, small sitting there. Zayn wonders what Liam is thinking about.

“He was my best friend. I miss him,” Liam says.

Zayn lets his eyes close for a moment, just a small moment. When he opens them to take a drag from his cigarette, he looks over at the end of the sofa, seeks out Liam’s eyes.

Liam isn’t there.

+

More days pass and he doesn’t see Harry or Liam and he feels like it’s all gone to shit.

So he writes. He writes a lot and he drinks a lot and he sleeps a lot. He smokes too much and showers too much and keeps himself quiet for hours and hours, not muttering a single word.

There isn’t anyone around to hear him anyway.

+

Zayn shuts off the shower. The steam keeps the bathroom warm as he towels off and brushes his teeth. He’s careful when he shaves, trimming the length of his beard just enough that it looks presentable, even though he isn’t going anywhere. He looks better, better than he did when he first came to this house. He’s still skinny, that’s never going to change, but he’s solid. He doesn’t look like a skeleton anymore.

(His mother would have been worried, strapped him down to a chair and forced him to eat because she wouldn’t let him get by without being healthy.)

He forgoes the towel when he walks out of the bathroom. It takes him a moment.

A moment too long maybe.

Liam’s sat at the end of his bed, crossed legs and hands in his lap. He looks straight to Zayn, and Zayn freezes in the doorway.

He doesn’t have anything to be shy about, but it’s the still the shock of the first time someone’s seen him naked. And it’s been a long, long time since he’s bedded a bird or a bloke. Long enough that he’s blushing a little bit.

It doesn’t last long because surprise takes over mostly when Liam disappears.

“Liam?” Zayn calls out, but it seems to be useless since Liam doesn’t come back.

He wonders if Liam’s ever going to stay like he used to.

+

It’s Harry that shows up next. It’s been days after Zayn’s seen Liam, and Liam still hasn’t come around, even though the first thing Zayn does when he wakes is call out for the ghost.

Harry looks apologetic at least, a sweet smile curling his lips and his eyes glittering.  Zayn smiles at him, shuffling to the side and letting Harry walk inside.

“I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to—“

Zayn cuts off a speech he knows Harry’s only just beginning. “Don’t worry about it.” It could be anything that Harry’s trying to apologize for, but Zayn sort of doesn’t want to hear it. He knows.

It’s like relief fills Harry’s body; he moves forward and envelopes Zayn with his long arms, face in the crook of his neck.

“Is it okay to say I missed you?” Harry asks. Against all odds, Zayn finds himself exhaling a stilted laugh.

“It’s alright, Harry.” Because really, going against how alone Zayn likes to feel, he’s missed Harry, too.

+

Sitting in the living room, they leave the television on a random channel they don’t pay much attention to. Zayn wants a cigarette, but the smoke irritates Harry’s asthma so he goes without; instead, he runs his fingers through Harry’s hair. It curls at the ends, it’s thick between Zayn’s fingertips, and it smells like lavender and vanilla. Everything about Harry is so soft; he’s all heart and a compass that points to home.

“You remind me of him.”

It’s been awhile since either of them spoke; Harry’s voice is a hoarse whisper, quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb the tranquility they built. Zayn listens, doesn’t move or say anything, because he’s come to be so curious about this tall, gangly boy and the thoughts he has to share.

“I mean, you remind me of Liam sometimes,” Harry murmurs. “He could be intense, really concentrated on things, like. He was sweet though, polite, made everyone happy with his smile. He had the best smile. His eyes would—he just looked so happy all the time.”

Zayn looks down at Harry, breathes in and exhales; he wants that cigarette again, because there’s a burning in his chest, undefinable and petrifying. He wants to see Liam again, because he knows that smile, how Liam’s cheeks push up high and his eyes disappear and all that’s left is a wide blinding smile that makes Zayn’s heart ache. Even in death, the kid is as bright as sunshine.

Zayn lets his eyes close, imagines it. He lets his eyes flutter down to Harry, to where Harry’s eyes are closed and his body is curled in small, tucked into the sides of Zayn’s ribs.

“He helped out a lot. Mowing lawns, cleaning gutters. He babysat kids on the weekends, worked hard at school; he was a literal saint. He wasn’t perfect though, not by a long shot, but he had this heart made of gold. He tried so hard. I just—I wish you could meet him. I mean. I wish you could’ve.” Harry looks up at Zayn, like he needs to elaborate. “You can’t because he’s dead.”

And Zayn knows this, has witnessed this, has met the ghost of the boy Harry mourns, yet, it’s a blow to his solar plexus, right in the middle of him and suddenly it’s like he can’t breathe. But he is breathing and it—it feels like a problem, an issue. It’s—he’s everything Liam isn’t and it’s not fair. Things rarely are in life, and there isn’t a damned thing he can do to rectify that, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t agonizing.

“He would have liked you,” Harry continues. “Aside from the fact he likes everyone, he would have liked you. Because you’re smart and quiet, but you laugh sometimes, because something is honestly funny. And you’re ridiculously beautiful. I mean—like,” Harry puts a hand over Zayn’s chest, yawning. “Liam deserved the world and didn’t get any of it.”

Harry drops off into sleep, right against Zayn’s body. Zayn stays still for a while, even when it gets dark and his throat is scratchy and he feels like his lungs are going to explode and his arm has fallen asleep.

It feels like hours and Harry sleeps soundly and Zayn disentangles himself from Harry and leaves the boy to snuggle into the throw pillow on the couch. Zayn walks outside, onto the porch and sits in a chair. He’s freezing and he wants to sleep, but he’s wired awake, so he smokes, and he thinks for a little bit, and tries not to miss Liam too much.

(It doesn’t work.)

+

When he goes back inside, Harry’s still asleep. Zayn turns the television off, and wakes Harry.

“Babe, get up.” Zayn shakes Harry’s shoulder until his eyes peek open. “Come on. Sleep with me. I don’t want to be ‘lone,” Zayn admits lowly.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just stretches his body and moves into sitting on the edge of the couch. Zayn pulls on Harry’s arms until Harry is trailing sluggishly behind him, up the stairs and into Zayn’s bedroom.

Harry flops down on the bed and Zayn follows in after him, sliding underneath the blankets.

He’s almost asleep, almost there—

“This was Liam’s room.” Harry yawns. “Can see the moon best from here.”

And suddenly, Zayn’s zapped awake, looking out of the window.

It’s a new moon.

There isn’t anything to look at aside from the dark sky and little droplets of rain.

+

Zayn wakes and he’s halfway to freezing his balls off. He tugs the blankets closer, reaches out for Harry’s body, but only finds a chilled spot of air.

He opens his eyes and—

The thing is, Liam’s eyes are kind of exquisite, really. He’s not expecting it, but there’s an emotion that fills Zayn; he wants to move closer, find his place in the expanse of Liam’s strong arms—it almost feels silly the way the feeling rattles through him and he isn’t shivering anymore. Just looking at Liam who’s looking right back.

“Stop leaving me,” Zayn whispers. His eyes blink, heavy from sleep. Liam’s lips stretch into an easy smile, kind and fond and—Zayn has no right to be feeling this way. It isn’t normal.

“I thought you wanted me to go,” Liam counters.

Zayn huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I did. But not anymore.”

Not anymore.

+

Liam’s there, it seems, all the time. He hovers when Harry comes over, is stuck to Zayn like glue when Harry’s presence is scarce, but he’s around. Always.

(Zayn didn’t think he’d build a home like this, he never thought in the midst of failing to write a book, he’d fill out the blank lines of his own story.

He’s the protagonist, and he’s figured out that his own life is the antagonist. And hilariously enough, his love interest is a ghost wandering the halls of his childhood home. )

It’s funny, sometimes, when Liam’s around and his presence warms Zayn to his very bones and Liam’s making him laugh with stories of the troubles he and Harry would get into, with two other friends tagging along.

But if Zayn thinks about it too much, there’s that glimmer of pain again, seizing up in his heart.

(That’s when he writes, pouring out his frustrations because he more than likes this transparent boy and he doesn’t know what to do.)

+

“Liam?” Zayn calls out when he steps inside. He shakes the snow from his body, warming up immensely to the heat of his home. His bones feel frigid.

“You’re home!” Liam seems to appear out of thin air, like he always does, and Zayn smiles at him.

“Yeah, sorry I took so long. Harry wanted to have lunch. The fact that I live in your house doesn’t explain why he feels like he needs to be closer to me.” Zayn says, shrugging out of his jacket, hanging it up in the closet.

Liam looks the same, like he does every day.

(He doesn’t change, he’s a constant, in the worst way possible. Zayn is always changing. He’s forced to.)

“Dunno. We were friends. Maybe it makes sense. For you and Harry—“ Liam cuts himself off, floats away into the hallway without continuing. Zayn’s a little bit curious about it.

“For me and Harry to what?” Zayn calls out. “Liam?”

Zayn wanders down the hallway and finds Liam on his bed, lying back. His hands are behind his head and his legs are crossed at the ankles. He looks comfortable, and Zayn doesn’t quite like the way he loves that Liam looks like he belongs in this house, with color in his cheeks, warm on Zayn’s bed.

“Liam?” Zayn tries again. Liam curls up on his side, facing away from Zayn. Sighing, Zayn gets up on the bed, wishes he could wrap his arms around Liam’s waist, press the palm of his hands against Liam’s belly.

(He ignores thoughts of pressing kisses to the back of Liam’s neck, maybe even across his shoulder, down his spine and--)

“Liam, talk to me, please?” Zayn pleads, and Liam huffs, shaking his head.

“It just makes sense for you and Harry to love each other, Zayn.” Liam’s voice is tight and Zayn can barely hear it over the sound of his own heart shattering in his chest.

“You haven’t been paying attention if you think I’m in love with Harry, Li,” Zayn replies quickly, because he’s scared he might not say anything at all.

“Harry comes over, and he stays the night. You go out with him and you have lunch with him and I just—I just wait for you to come back. Wait for Harry to go, even though I miss him so much, because for some reason, I miss you more.” Liam turns around to look at him. His body shrugs. He seems so solid, strong, but fragile and vulnerable in a way Zayn wasn’t used to.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Zayn whispers, because he spends all his time missing Liam when Liam isn’t right by his side. And it’s terrifying, the emotions he can feel, just downright scary because he can feel all the emotions he wants, but he can’t feel Liam.

“You don’t have to say anything. What can you say? It’s stupid.” Liam closes his eyes and starts to hum. Zayn can’t pick out the tune; it sounds foreign, like Liam’s made it up. Zayn looks down at Liam, where he lays on Zayn’s bed covers.

Zayn sighs, shaking his head. “No. No. I can’t fall in love with a ghost.”

Liam grins, and it’s bright and beautiful and so, so lovely. When he opens his eyes, his pupils are the darkest Zayn’s ever seen, Sharpie black surrounded by a ring of that sweet brown. “Why not? I fell in love with you.”

+

Zayn turns the music on.

They’re dancing and laughing, standing in the middle of the living room where Zayn’s pushed the coffee table against the wall and has created a makeshift dancefloor. It’s lightening, only a little bit heart wrenching, watching the way Liam moves his hips when he’s joking, coaxes Zayn to dance with him. And so they do, to song after song, belting out lyrics they know off by heart.

And when it gets dark, and the moon is full in the sky, they go up to the bedroom and lay on Zayn’s bed. And there’s a million different times Zayn wishes he could just close the space between them, get his hands in Liam’s hair and hold him close. They don’t have that option, but sitting crossed legged in front of each other, Liam reaches out a hand.

“Do you think I could?”

Zayn looks at him, shrugging his shoulders. “Have you ever?”

Liam shakes his head. “Don’t think I’m strong enough. Or mad enough. Dunno. It doesn’t feel like anything I’ve read about before, or seen in movies, like.”

Zayn smiles. “That’s because those movies aren’t real. This is real.”

Liam frowns when his hand goes through Zayn’s. Zayn’s skin feels so close, like it’ll freeze, but it doesn’t. And if anything, it makes the feeling of wanting to crawl into Liam’s space and get personal with the feel of Liam’s flesh wash over him. An uncontrollable desire, to be honest, one he doesn’t know how to tame. He just wants Liam. Wants him all the time.

“I’m not real,” Liam says, still frowning. “You’re real, but I’m not.”

Zayn laughs. “Just cause we can’t touch, that doesn’t mean you aren’t real, mate.”

“It does, too!” But Liam’s smiling a little bit, like he’s fond. And maybe he is, Zayn thinks. Zayn knows he’s fond. Very fond. In love, and it sucks, but it’s the best he’s ever felt, admitting it, even though this can only end in disaster and it’s an absolute train wreck.

“Just try it,” Zayn says. “Focus. Get mad, be strong, whatever it takes.” Zayn holds out his hand, fingers spread like he’s expecting Liam’s fingers to fill the spaces. And he is.

Liam pauses for a moment and Zayn watches him scrunch up his face, concentrate for a long moment.

He reaches out to touch Zayn.

His hand hovers over Zayn’s fingers—

+

In a perfect world, Zayn knows, Zayn would have felt Liam’s hand warm and solid on his own, long, thick fingers taking up the spaces of Zayn’s hand. He would have touched Liam, in a perfect world.

+

—Liam’s hand falls through Zayn’s.

“Fuck,” Liam swears, pulling his hand back and setting both in his lap.

Before Zayn can hold it back, he says, “I wish.”

Liam’s eyes find Zayn’s and Liam’s smiling and Zayn’s smiling and—well yeah, maybe Zayn does wish, but.

“Maybe one day,” Liam says.

It’s just something to say, like when it’s all gone to shit and his mum says it’s all going to be alright, or when he isn’t okay and he says he’s fine anyway. Maybe never means yes. It means not right now which only leads to never. Maybe means broken promises.

It’s a synonym for no that builds false hope.

Maybe one day Liam would be alive and healthy, with pink in his cheeks and warms in his fingers and an easy breath in his lungs. Maybe one day Liam would sit with him at the dinner table before his mother and father, between his sisters. Maybe one day Liam would be the solid arms around Harry’s body as they hug.

Maybe one day Zayn won’t feel so cold when the only thing that can make him warm is sitting right in front of him with hope glimmering in his eyes like maybe one day is a complete possibility.

+

“We could go anywhere.”

Zayn’s eyes open and he settles on Liam’s, where Liam is looking straight at him. His comment is unprompted and Zayn is slightly confused, but wholly curious. Zayn rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling.

“What d’you mean, Li?” Zayn asks, shrugging the blankets of his body because it’s too hot. Being this close to Liam cools him down, though.

“I mean, we could go anywhere. If I wasn’t dead. Like, we could go to parks and like, the beach, that would be fun. I like to surf, you know? And you could stay on the shore and draw like you like to, and people watch, because you said once, you liked doing that for your drawings.”

Zayn smiles, nodding. If, they could.

“We could go to Italy or Spain. Ireland, yeah? Even, America. How weird, thinking ‘bout that. Like, they drive on the wrong side of the street, those knobs.”

Laughing, Zayn shakes his head. “What else?”

“I … don’t know,” Liam answers. “There’s a million things we could do, and all I can think about is being, you know. Here, like this, but.”

Zayn purses his lips, eyes roving over the pensive expression of Liam’s face. “But what?”

“But. But more.”

The curiosity is bursting inside of Zayn. He wants to pull it out of Liam, find out exactly what he means. “Liam--”

“I want to kiss you. And more than that, you know? Put my hands on you, all over you. I …”

The truth is, there isn’t anything Zayn wants more than to touch Liam like this, to hold him close while they wear nothing but blushes on their skin. “Keep going,” Zayn whispers.

+

Harry brings chocolate cake and liquor and Zayn smokes through a pack of cigarettes in two days. It’s nothing they’re celebrating. Not anything at all. But just because celebrating nothing is better than the shrouding darkness of being sad all the time.

“You should come home with me, Zayn,” Harry says. “You could meet my mum.”

And it’s a nice idea, one that Zayn wants to accept, but he can’t. He can’t even see his own mother.

“You go, have fun. I can’t do that yet. I don’t—“

Harry smiles at him, sweet and light, like he’s got all kinds of light inside of him ready to be spilled. “Sure, sure,” Harry says.

+

When Christmas rolls around, he’s equal parts surprised and anxious.

He hasn’t seen Liam in two days, and he doesn’t know where the boy is, even though he calls out for him. And every time he does this, every time Liam makes himself scarce like this, Zayn feels the anxiety frost in his veins and make a home in his too-fast beating heart.

So when Liam misses Christmas and Zayn wakes up alone and cold in his bed, Zayn calls his mum.

+

His mum misses him. He misses her just as much, of course, and even though she cries, she doesn’t admonish him or ask him to come round home. He’s grateful; he knows it would break him and he would go, leave this big blue house and see his mum’s face again. She isn’t far, just hours away, but he can’t. He has to write; he has to focus.

(He can’t leave Liam.)

+

He wakes to humming.

It’s a new year.

+

“It’s getting harder to come around,” Liam whispers; it’s just past three in the morning, and Zayn doesn’t want to hear that. That’s the last thing Zayn wanted to hear. “It—like, it takes lots of energy. Not even as a ghost am I invincible.”

Zayn frowns, closing his eyes. He doesn’t like to think that his time with Liam is going to have an end. He doesn’t like to think that he’s going to Liam. Doesn’t entertain the idea that Liam might leave him.

It’s inevitable.

“Does it hurt?” Zayn asks.

Liam shakes his head. “No. It just—I can feel it. Like, it makes me feel sleepy. And ghosts can’t sleep, but—I don’t know.”

Zayn wants to reach out and rest his hand on Liam’s cheek, run his thumb over the pink of Liam’s bottom lip. A kiss would be sweet, and he wishes he could. He keeps his hands tucked underneath the pillow where he rests his head.

“If we could, where would we go?” Liam asks.

Zayn shrugs. “Anywhere we wanted to, I guess.” Zayn smiles. “Because we could.”

Liam smiles too, and Zayn feels sleepy. “Okay.”

+

Zayn’s mother calls on Zayn’s birthday. The sun is shining and there’s snow everywhere. The heat is on and Zayn’s huffing down a cigarette.

“Come home, sunshine,” she says, and she sounds happy, and Zayn is—Zayn’s not sure what he is.

“I will, mum. I promise.”

Liam sits on the other end of the couch, legs crossed, hands on his thighs. His eyes are curious. Zayn frowns.

“When will you be up, then?” she asks.

Zayn nudges the cushions of the sofa with his toes. “A few weeks. I—I just need to take care of some things here, and I will be up there before you know it. I’ve missed you.” He leans his head over the armrest, closing his eyes.

Zayn can almost hear the way you smile. “I’ve missed you, too, love. I’ll see you soon then.”

“Yeah. Bye Mum. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Zayn hangs up the phone call, and tries the ignore the heaviness of Liam’s eyes on his. When he looks up, Liam isn’t sitting there anymore.

+

He gets that Liam is upset with him as he packs up his things.

He should have said something, he should have told Liam maybe, that he’d suddenly decided to go home, finish writing at home, where his family would be crowding the house, taking up every empty space possible. He should have told Liam that he was leaving.

He just isn’t brave enough to.

He can feel Liam hovering as he packs things up, back into the boxes he took them out of, but not everything. He’s not selling the house, he’s just—he’s just taking a break. Just need a little bit of space.

“You told me to stop leaving you. I don’t mean to. It just happens.”

Zayn looks up at the doorway, where Liam is standing. “You ignore me when you feel like it.”

Liam shakes his head and Zayn hangs his, feeling the defeat settle in his heart. He doesn’t like the way this feels like a breakup. “I didn’t ignore you, Zayn. I--“

The doorbell rings, and then there’s a strong knocking. “Harry’s here. And we can’t talk about this right now.” Zayn turns to leave the room and step down the stairs.

It’s Harry at the door, Harry and his sad smile. “Where would you like me to start?” Harry asks as he walks inside.

Zayn smiles, thankful. “The bookcases would be great, if you could.”

Harry does as he’s asked and Zayn goes back upstairs. Liam’s sitting in the middle of his bed. He looks solid, but Zayn knows better.

“I’ve been practicing.”

It takes a moment for Zayn to notice the fact that Liam’s holding something, a book.

Zayn’s heart is pounding in his chest. He’s staring, he knows that, and the book doesn’t drop through Liam like Zayn’s expecting. Nope, he’s just touching it, holding it, running a finger down the book’s spine.

Zayn’s never moved so fast in his life, but he does now, kneeling on the bed and looking straight at Liam. He reaches his hands out, tentatively sets them on the sides of Liam’s face; Zayn is able to trace the apples of his cheeks, run his thumb along Liam’s bottom lip.

“You’re real,” Zayn says in amazement.

“Yeah,” Liam says, breathless, staring up at Zayn with wonder in his eyes. His thumbs rub circles into his hip bones and Zayn shivers.

“You’re so cold,” Zayn says.

“Well, I’m still dead, Zayn,” Liam teases, and his cheeks push up because of the width of his smile, and Zayn is laughing.

“Shh,” Liam chastises, “Harry’s going to hear.”

“You don’t want him to see you? Why?” Zayn asks, furrowing his brow. The palms of his hands are tingling and his heart is pounding and his skin feels too tight on his body and he just wants to press so close against Liam.

“Because that cuts the time I could be kissing you. Please, Zayn,” Liam whispers, “I just—“

+

Harry leaves after he’s done packing the books, after Zayn makes dinner for the two of them. There’s a teary eyed hug and an I’ll miss you tucked in there, and Zayn feels good having met Harry. He feels like when he comes back, when he comes home, there’ll be someone that’ll welcome him.

He isn’t a stranger in this town anymore.

+

Kissing Liam is like—

It’s like pressing his lips to a block of ice, if he’s brutally honest. There isn’t the warmth of a person like he was expecting, but it’s—

To be in love and be loved back creates all the flickers of warmth he’ll ever need, he thinks.

Liam’s lips are intense in the gentlest way, in a way that Zayn hadn’t expected. It thrums through him, the little gasp he hears from Liam, the way Liam’s hands hold onto his hips, the way their lips move and it feels like everything was building up towards this moment, like everything was leading to this, a simple kiss between him and the one person he loves most in this world.

It’s short, too short; Zayn isn’t ready for the pressure of Liam’s lips to subside, but it does, and suddenly, he’s just grasping at air.

He feels like crying. So he does.

“No, no, babe, please don’t,” Liam whines, and Zayn laughs, but it’s humorless. He’s still kneeling on the bed and Liam’s still sitting crossed legged before him and it’s almost perfect. He could fall into Liam and Liam could hold him. Almost perfect.  Zayn falls back on his haunches, shakes his head as he wipes at his eyes. “Don’t cry, Zayn, please.”

In a perfect world, Liam would hold him now.

“I can’t help it,” Zayn responds. “I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want little pieces of you. I want all of you. Every part of you. Don’t you get that?” Zayn asks, frustrated. “I’m crying and you can’t even touch me.”

Liam doesn’t say anything, just looks away from Zayn, out of the window where the moon beams down, full and bright in the sky.

“Liam, you know I have to go, right? To sort things out.”

“I don’t want you to,” Liam says petulantly, “but yes, I understand.”

Zayn nods. “It’s just for a little while. I’ll come back. I like this house. I like Harry.”

Liam gives a little smile and Zayn smiles back. “Do you still like me?”

Zayn sighs. “You haven’t been paying attention if you think I’m anything other than completely in love with you, Liam.”

Zayn settles down on the bed, lies back against the pillow. Liam follows, and it’s like he’s got just a tiny bit of strength left to reach over and hold Zayn’s hand. And that’s how Zayn falls asleep, Liam’s humming and his hand chilly in Zayn’s grasp.

Of course, though, he wakes up and Liam’s gone.

+

They mostly sleep until Zayn has to leave. They run through the days just to talk and laugh and tease and joke and sleep, and sometimes Liam musters up all his strength to touch Zayn at night, when the moon is high in the sky and the air is still. And Zayn’s breath hitches every time because, in a perfect world, maybe one day means yes, right now.

+

When it comes time for Zayn to go, Zayn’s out on the porch waiting for the taxi, trying to light a cigarette; the fluid in the cheap lighter he’s bought is out, of course he’s frustrated.

He feels Liam before he sees him, and Liam’s smiling, cheery with his cheeks pushed up and his eyes squinting. He reaches his hands out, cups a hand around the end of Zayn’s cigarette and ignites the lighter he’s holding. Zayn’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He’s never anything less than surprised when it comes to Liam, is he?

(Liam looks beautiful, the same as he always does, eyes glittering like he’s so, so happy. And maybe, just maybe, Zayn is a little bit happy, too.)

“You took my lighter?” Zayn asks, remembering that frustrated night, before he’d met Liam, and lighting his cigarette on the stove.

Liam chuckles and nods. “I needed something to practice on, to see how long I could stay, you know. How long I could stay real. I don’t know if I’m getting stronger because I’ve been dead longer, or if practice makes perfect, but at least I can kiss you before you go.”

Zayn hums, grinning. “I’d like that.”

And it’s surreal, to feel Liam’s hands on his hips again, cool fingers running up his waist underneath his layers of clothing. “Promise you’ll come back?”

“You’ll be here when I come, yeah?”

Liam grins, purses his lips like he’s thinking about the answer to Zayn’s question. Zayn laughs, but pushes himself closer to Liam; even though he’s cold, there isn’t anything but warmth sparking inside of Zayn. It’s—

“Of course I’ll be here,” Liam answers, smiling. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but home.”

And the only answer to that Zayn has is to push up just slightly on his toes, lean into Liam, and catch his lips in a kiss.

+

In the back of the taxi, Zayn’s lips are still tingling. He’s smiling even when he turns around to peer out of the window at the blue house behind him and catches the quickest glimpse of Liam’s red hoodie.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! [hmu here](http://liamthirst.tumblr.com/)


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